


It's the end of the world, but mine's just beginning

by a_hemmen



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Small Steve, bucky has ptsd, end of the world AU, pre-serum steve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-09-22 23:02:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9629069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_hemmen/pseuds/a_hemmen
Summary: The world has ended, most of the population has just disappeared, and Steve knows that he's not capable of surviving in his own. He needs to find someone. Enter Bucky.Also: see my full list of works on my author page OR athere





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What do you do when you have two WIPs up already and two more not posted? You write a whole new thing!!!

Steve holds no grand notion about his place in the apocalypse, if that’s what’s happening here. Since the power went out two weeks ago, he’s not entirely sure what’s going down in the outside world. He’s been bunkered down in the apartment he used to share with his mother for almost three weeks now, living off the stockpile of canned food he had taken to keeping around the house in case of an incapacitating illness, or… you know… the end of civilization.

Somehow, until about three weeks ago, the illness had seemed a _bit_ more likely. 

He’s still not entirely sure how everything went down. He’d been watching TV, some generic sitcom involving doctors, nurses, and who they were sleeping with, when the broadcast had been interrupted. 

The anchorman had been generically, soothingly handsome. His voice reassuring. “We’re sorry to interrupt your regularly scheduled programming, but there have been some disturbing reports floating around on the internet over the last several hours. These reports are being spread by anarchists attempting to incite a mass panic, and we’d like you to know that, though it may be wise to remain in your house for the next day or two, nothing is amiss. Any reports of odd happenings in your area are likely nothing more than rumors. Everything should be back to normal by the end of this week. Thank you. And now back to your regularly scheduled programming.” 

Steve had known that something the man said should have panicked him, but it didn’t. He ignored the sounds coming from outside his window and returned to watching the two lesbian doctors make out in a conveniently-placed closet. 

It took him three days to realize that the anchorman hadn’t even introduced himself, or even addressed the _rumors_ that he had claimed as false. 

That was almost three weeks ago, and Steve is beginning to run out of water. He’d started rationing the water after the Day 3. Day 5 and 7 he had spent almost all day filling every container he could find with tap water. (Day 6 had consisted mostly of a panic attack.) Luckily, by the time the electricity finally blinked out, Steve had boiled enough water to fill most of my available containers. 

But now he’s running out. 

Over the last couple of weeks (the first one was spent convincing himself that everything would be back to normal soon) Steve has been coming up with several different scenarios on how this could play out. Of course, everything would be slightly easier if he knew roughly what percentage of people are still alive, but he’s had to make due with what he _knows_. 

If he’s alive, at least _some_ other people must be, possibly on his street, probably in Brooklyn, and--worst case scenario-- _definitely_ throughout the rest of the city.  
At least some, if not most, of the people still alive could be violent and dangerous. Most people will probably be looking for either safety or power.  
He has almost no survival skills behind his can opener and can’t defend himself.  
He’s looking for safety. He’ll have to find someone looking for power.  
Steve can play nice for as long as necessary, as long as he’s safe. 

His mother died three years ago, and he promised, near the end, that he would take care of himself. 

He doesn’t plan on breaking that promise. 

Steve, knowing that he’s going to have to venture out of his haven at some point, begins to pack a bag. The first thing he does is fill several of the empty water bottles with his remaining water. He has enough for a couple of days at least, if he strictly rations. He throws in his trusty can opener, thankful that his mother had never splurged for one of those electric ones. He stuffs the remaining beef jerky sticks in a side pocket, throws in a variety of his remaining canned goods, and fills the rest of the space with an old, warm quilt his mother had sewn when she was a girl. 

He’s just thankful that puberty managed to stop most of his asthma-related health issues. The doctors always told his mom that the symptoms might resume later in life, but at this point he’s not looking farther ahead than the next hour or so. Regardless, he throws his emergency inhaler in a side pocket, hoping more than anything that he’ll never have to use it. 

He’s not sure if he’ll be able to come back, so he throws in a couple pictures of his mom, just for luck. The bag is heavy, but manageable. 

Steve is about to walk out the door when he turns around and pulls a medium-sized knife from one of the kitchen drawers and sheaths it inside the waist of his pants. It may not protect him from anybody intent on attacking him, but it might help in a pinch, at least. 

And then he leaves, not sure if he’ll ever see his home again. 

He’s been formulating the plan for several days, and though he has had time to work out the specifics, it’s still one of the most terrifying things Steve has ever done. The city is eerily quiet, as if everybody in the entire city but Steve vanished overnight. He sees some alley cats chasing each other in broad daylight and thinks he hears a dog barking out in the distance. 

While a large part of his brain is screaming at him to _GO BACK_ , he knows that if he sits in the empty apartment for the rest of his life, that life will be very short. He trudges on. 

It had taken him a while to decide where he wanted to stake out on his search for other people. Obviously, a bodega would make the most sense. The preservative-filled food will be good for years--if not decades--and anybody bent on surviving this… _whatever is going on_ will probably make their way to a bodega at some point or another. 

After a lot of debate, he heads to the nearest one. He’ll hop from convenience store to convenience store for as long as he needs. He knows that statistically, he’s bound to run into someone eventually. 

It’s three days later before he sees his first person. He’s pretty sure that other people have been _around_ , but it’s never been noticeable besides from missing supplies in the stores he’s been rotating around. He can’t blame the people, he’s been hiding as well, watching for any coming and goings so that he can see the people before he decides to make himself known. Anybody with any sort of brains would be doing the exact same thing. 

Not this guy. 

Of course, this guy is also carrying what appears to be a military-grade weapon. (An automatic weapon? Steve can’t really tell.) So that might be part of why this guy is freaking _swaggering_ through the doors open doors of the store. The cocky smirk is both reassuring and terrifying. This man would either keep Steve safe or get Steve killed, he’s 100% certain. 

The man is objectively attractive, shaggy, dark hair pulled back with one of those stretchy headbands that would make any other grown man look downright ridiculous. His shoulders are wide, he looks strong and toned. He’s wearing normal, though very nice, clothes. What appear to be new jeans and a dark henley shirt with well-worn work boots. He’s wearing very expensive sunglasses, but Steve supposes that those are all free now, so he’s not going to judge the man for _that_ at least. 

The whistling, though on tune, is starting to grate on Steve’s nerves a little bit. 

The man is picking through the remaining packaged food when he calls out. “You gonna keep hiding, or you gonna come out any time soon?”

At first, Steve assumes that the man is talking to someone else. What’s the chances of him seeing _no one_ for three days, and then running into two people at the exact same time? Unlikely. 

“C’mon now, your little hiding spot is very cute, and I’m sure it’s fooled everyone who came through here to pick through this crap in the dead of night, but I’m not quite so unobservant. Why don’t you come out, and we’ll see if maybe we can get along.” The words are a question, but it comes out a statement. This man is _telling_ him to come out and say hello. Steve may be terrified, but there’s a part of his brain that can’t help but think that maybe this is the kind of guy he’s been looking for. 

He pushes the crates out of the way. 

The other man just looks at him, the over eager smile contrasting strangely with the rifle in his hands. “Hiding by the rotten fruit was a pretty good idea. I’m sure that most people have been avoiding those anyway.” 

“Well, how’d you find me then?” Something about this guy makes Steve kind of want to punch him, but he restrains himself, not only could this guy knock Steve out in 5 seconds, flat, but Steve needs _somebody_ to help him out, and this guy’s the only one who seems to be in the running at the moment. 

“Everything was arranged too neatly. It’s the end of the fucking world, man. Nobody stacks crates like that anymore.” 

Steve folds his arms across his chest. He tries to keep his tone light and inoffensive. The last thing he needs to do is piss off the guy with the gun. “Fair enough, I guess.” 

“Don’t take it hard though, I’m sort of a professional at this kind of thing.” The man scans up and down, almost predatory, up and down Steve’s body. He _could_ have done this without Steve even knowing, since he’s wearing glasses, but he moves his head up and down, visibly raising his eyebrow afterwards. “What were you doing here anyway, trying to get yourself killed? It’s not exactly the most remote hiding place you could’ve picked.” 

_Real answer or fake answer. Real answer or fake answer. Some combination of the two?_ “I was running out of water.”

The man nods, “That seems to be a common trend recently. I can respect your plan on waiting till it was dark. You know,” Steve can feel the man’s eye roll, even if he can’t see it. “When it’s so much _safer_.” Steve is about to defend himself, though he’s not sure _how_ exactly he would do that, but the man continues. “Also, grabbing some water and getting the fuck out of dodge makes sense. But you’ve been skipping from place to place for _days_. Do you know how many times I’ve had to save your ass today _alone_.” 

“Uh…” 

“Three times. Three times _today_. At first it was fine, I thought maybe you were hurt and waiting to heal up enough to get back to wherever you’ve been hiding for the last couple of weeks, I was willing to give you that. But now I’m pretty sure that you’re just straight up trying to get yourself killed, so now I’m intervening.” 

Steve is completely speechless for a minute. He had been starting to think that he might be the last person alive in the entire city. And he’s not. Even this guy is an asshole. 

_He’s not alone._ He didn’t think that he would get so emotional about the thought, but tears are already running down his face. “I thought I was alone.” It comes out softer than he means. In the back of his mind, he can’t help thinking that this guy might kill him, if he knows that Steve is both stupid _and_ weak. “I haven’t seen anyone for three weeks. Not one, single person. The last person I talked to was my landlord, and he just… He’s gone. Everyone in my building is gone.” Steve looks down, trying not to let the man see any more of his tears. 

“Oh,” The man’s voice had been condescending, insulting, and almost teasing just moments before. Now he just sounds uncomfortable. “It’s… you’re okay. I…” He feels glove-covered hands grab ahold of his shoulders. “You’re not alone. I… I didn’t even think that… You were _looking_ for people?” 

Steve nods. “I could have holed up in the apartment longer, a couple more days at least, maybe even a week or two if I searched my neighbor’s for water, but I couldn’t do it anymore. I was going crazy.”

“I respect that, I guess.” The man rubs his hand across the back of his neck, seeming almost embarrassed now. “I mean… I’ll… um…” 

“Steve Rogers.” Steve pushes his hand out, firm, trying to get the man to forget whatever weakness he had shown in the tears. 

“Bucky…” The man’s handshake is tentative, more reserved. “Bucky Barnes.” 

He turns around, walking out of the open door. Steve follows. They’ve only gone a few feet from the building when the man, _Bucky_ Steve tells himself, turns around. “What the fuck are you doing?” 

“...Nothing?” 

Bucky turns back around and continues to walk. Steve continues to follow. 

“Man? What the fuck? Go back to your shitty hiding spot and wait for people or whatever.” 

It’s Steve’s turn to roll his eyes. “Bucky, I’ve already _found_ people. Besides, you said the other ones are dangerous.” 

“You can’t follow me.” 

“Why?” 

“You just can’t.” 

“You just said you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve saved my ass in the last couple of days! Are you just going to let me be killed by the next person I happen to run into?”

“...No.” 

“So I might as well follow you. It’ll make your job easier. I won’t go crazy. It’s a win-win.”

“No.”

“Fine.” Steve crosses his arms. “I guess I’ll just go back to my shitty hiding spot. Except this time I won’t even _try_ to hide. Just out in the open, waiting for the next person to happen across me.” He begins to stomp away, maybe slightly dramatically. 

“Fuck it.” He hears Bucky mutter under his breath. “Fine.” He calls out. “But if I tell you that you have to leave, you better fucking leave.” 

Steve hurries to catch up with Bucky. “Alrighty, partner. Where are we going?”

He’s pretty sure that Bucky rolls his eyes again, but at this point he doesn’t care.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: This is what happens when I try to post something before I have a clear outline... aka a month and a half without updating... I really am sorry to anybody who was hoping for a quick update... (On the bright side I think I know where the next couple of chapters are going! Possibly even to the end. We'll see ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ )
> 
> Also: We meet more Avengers next chapter, if all goes according to plan!

They’re in a warehouse. Steve hadn’t thought about it beforehand, but this seems to be the perfect place for hunkering down after the apocalypse. There are more non perishables than even the biggest gas station in the country, plus clothes and even some weapons. 

Bucky hasn’t talked much. It might be that Steve is making the other man uncomfortable, but something tells Steve that _anyone_ would be making him uncomfortable. It can’t be that Bucky feels like Steve is dangerous at all; he’s not armed besides the laughable kitchen knife that he has stuck in his jeans. It’s almost as if Bucky doesn’t trust _himself_. 

Steve can’t figure it out. 

After several hours of Bucky sitting moodily on a beanbag--one _can_ in fact sit moodily on a beanbag--as Steve talks strings of anxiety-driven nonsense at him, the man stands up. Steve almost has a heart attack from the suddenness of it. 

“Beanbag or sleeping bag?” Bucky offers. 

“Porque no los dos?” Steve jokes, but Bucky shrugs and seems to take him seriously as he pushes the beanbag in Steve’s general direction and digs a sleeping bag out of one of the boxes he has piled in the room. 

Bucky begins walking away. 

“Hey! Where are you going?” 

“I’m gonna sleep. You’ll be safe here.” 

Bucky walks across the room and through a door, not the one they had come in through. The click of a lock seems to echo across the room, or maybe it’s just in Steve’s mind. The lights shut off only seconds after, leaving Steve just enough light to arrange the bean bag and sleeping bag into a more comfortable configuration. 

He should be scared, completely at the mercy of a man he hadn’t even _seen_ twelve hours beforehand, but he _doesn’t_ , and that terrifies him more than anything. 

Steve’s never been all that trusting of people in even the best of circumstances; he probably hasn’t _really_ felt comfortable with anyone since his mom passed away. The fact that he feels comfortable enough to fall asleep with this random guy wandering around an empty warehouse, it’s just… it’s _strange_. Bucky seems constantly skittish, on the edge of some sort of breakdown at any given moment. Steve _shouldn’t_ trust him, but he does. 

Steve’s heart almost gives out as he wakes up. A strange man-- _Bucky_ his brain supplies--is inches from his face. “Jesus H. Christ, man. Personal space, heard of it?”

Bucky just laughs, loud and barking. “I brought breakfast.” He holds out a box of protein bars in varying flavors. “Would you prefer peanut butter, chocolate, or strawberry?”

“Strawberry?” Steve’s brain is still foggy with sleep. “What time is it, anyway?” He asks as Bucky throws him a couple of the bars. 

Bucky shrugs. “9:42 a.m.” The guys hadn’t even looked at a watch, and Steve’s expression must give away his surprise, because Bucky _almost_ blushes. “Approximately.” 

Steve decides not to question whatever strange method Bucky uses to tell time and begins to tear apart his breakfast. He eats both of them, preoccupied the entire time with watching Bucky _devour_ his own. Steve loses count after six bars, but Bucky finishes off the rest of the box without a second thought, as if people regularly ingest more than 3,000 calories in a single sitting without throwing up. 

Bucky seems to think that this is normal, but he also only gave Steve the two bars… so he must know that it’s not normal for _everyone_. Steve can’t help but remember Bucky’s taciturn moodiness from the night before and immediately decides to not mention it. He trusts Bucky, but he knows that there has to be something strange going on there, and for right now, it probably makes more sense to just leave it be. 

Maybe the man just has some strange genetic condition where he needs like 10,000 calories a day. That could very well be a thing that exists… Probably. 

After Bucky cleans up their breakfast, nonchalantly picking up close to a dozen wrappers, Steve watches him do what seems to be some sort of strange inventory of his weapons. Steve’s never held anything more powerful than an old BB gun at a distant cousin’s birthday party as a child, but Bucky seems to be very at home with every kind of weapon, judging based on the literal pile of weapons that he seems to have strapped to every part of his body possible. Steve sits in awe, watching Bucky systematically disassemble, clean, and reassemble each piece with precision. 

“So… uh… what’s the plan… here?”

Bucky looks up from placing the knives and guns back into their appropriate straps and pockets. “Plan?”

“Yeah… I mean… I was holed up in my apartment while this whole thing went down. I assumed I was the only one left at first, but since _you’re_ here, that must mean other people are out there too. And I haven’t even seen any bodies yet, not that I’m complaining. But does that mean that everyone is _missing_ or are they all dead? I guess you might not know, of course, but-” Steve stops when he sees the expression on Bucky’s face. 

“Not dead. They’re not dead.” Something seems to almost shut down in the man. “Not dead.” He repeats, sounding scared. More than scared, he sounds terrified. Steve can visibly notice the blood draining away from his face. 

Steve does his best to guide Bucky to the beanbag before he collapses. “Who are you talking about, Bucky? Everybody?”

“Everybody… missing. Disappeared. Not _them_. They… they wait… they’re… waiting. Not dead.” His hands are hiding his face, shielding himself from some imaginary danger. 

“Bucky?”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, just grabs Steve and holds him close, cradling him like he’s a child that needs protecting. Steve can feel the other man’s heart pounding through the layers of clothes and skin. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s been so close to someone else, it’s been… months at least. He should be panicking, hyperventilating with the lack of space, or freaking out because he doesn’t know _anything_ about Bucky, just knows that they’re the only two people that Steve is _sure_ is left. 

Steve’s not panicking, not at all. If anything, he’s never felt so at home. 

Bucky takes quite a while to calm down. About ten minutes after the panic started, Steve started to talk to him, telling him stories from Steve’s childhood, mostly. He can tell that Bucky is finally starting to calm down, his heartrate is almost back to normal when he starts a story about what happened after he changed school the first time. 

“My mom thought the new school would be better, but she really should have known better. Sickly little kid like me, assholes seemed drawn to me like a fly to sugar water. They could hardly help it. I remember this one guy, we were only freshmen but he was hardly taller than I was but weighed at least four or five times as much. Well his locker was next to mine, and he had this other kid pushed up against the locker. The guy he was picking on was trans, and Billy was calling him every name in the book. Billy was twice the size of this other guy, so he wasn’t going to say anything, just going to let the asshole run himself out of steam, and so I--”

“Seems to me, _you_ seem drawn to assholes more than they seem drawn to you.” 

“Hey, that’s not--You’re back?” 

Bucky looks down, still not enough blood in his cheeks for him to really blush. “I wasn’t… _gone_. Not exactly, anyway. It’s… It’s more complicated than--”

“Hey, no big deal man. I’m just glad you finally got tired of my stories. I was running out of the good ones. I was going to have to start on the sad ones soon.” 

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You mean the ones where you got the shit beat out of you _weren’t_ the sad ones?” 

Steve can feel himself blushing now, not really sure what to say. He realizes that he’s still practically sitting in Bucky’s lap. He removes himself, completely failing at attempting to do so in a not-awkward way. “I didn’t think that you’d remember them.” 

“Told you, I wasn’t gone… I just. I could hear, I just couldn’t… move very well. Paralyzed, almost. I guess.” 

“Was it something that I said?” Steve wants to do whatever he can to prevent that from happening again. He had felt alone again, like he might not have anyone else left to talk to, to just _be_ with. 

“Not… not really. It’ll probably happen again. That’s why… that’s why I didn’t want you to come, yesterday. This time I was calm during the… episode. Sometimes I’m not. Sometimes I wake up and things are torn apart, I can’t remember what was happening or if I hurt anybody. ‘S why I was a little relieved when everybody just disappeared like that.” 

“Well, that’s a shitty attitude to have, isn’t it? Were you going to just force me on my way then?” Bucky blushes, bright red this time. Steve looks around the room, sees a dark green backpack that seems to be on the verge of unloading its contents, it’s so overfull. He sees a couple protein bars backed into the mesh pockets, and a water bottle clipped to the other side. “You were going to make me leave, weren’t you?” 

“I’m putting you in danger, every second that you’re here is another second I could completely lose my shit. You should leave, before something happens.” 

“And just go out on my own again? Because that worked so well the last time? I can’t be alone again, Bucky. I was alone for weeks, nothing more than my own head for company, and I was on the edge of going crazy. I can’t do that again.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. “Well, find someone else then. If we’re both still here, there’s bound to be someone else. It’s not my responsibility to make sure that you don’t go crazy!” 

“Okay, but I’m making it _my_ responsibility to make sure that _you_ don’t go crazy. I was here this time, and you were fine. Maybe you just need someone to mellow you out while you’re having an attack.” 

“You can’t _know_ that, Steve.” 

“You can’t know that I’m wrong either though.” 

Bucky looks like he’s on the verge of pulling his own hair out, which Steve takes for a sign that he’s won the argument. Not that he’s going to brag or anything, but he does get some mild satisfaction out of it. 

“Fine,” Bucky huffs, like a middle schooler. “I’m not going to force you to leave,” _As if you could force me to leave._ Steve can’t help but think to himself. “But that doesn’t mean that we’re not going to have some ground rules. I can’t function if I’m going to have to constantly worry that I’m could start attacking you at any given moment--” 

“You won’t-” 

“Regardless,” Bucky rolls his eyes. “You need to listen to me. If I start acting weird, you need to try to _get away_. I don’t care what kind of weird, sacrificial shit is going through your brain. You _get away_. And if I tell you that something is dangerous, or if you need to stop talking for some reason, you need to _listen_. I get the feeling that you’re not all that accustomed to listening to instructions.” 

“And are you accustomed to giving orders then? What if you don’t know what you’re talking about?”

“I’m guessing only one of us here has military experience. If you have input, let me know. If I tell you that something’s dangerous, shut up and listen. Okay?”

“Yes sir.” Steve _almost_ manages to sound sincere, Bucky pretends not to notice.


End file.
